


is it still me that makes you sweat?

by AmygDalin



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Other, Probably ooc, Reader is AFAB - Freeform, Scissoring, Shameless Smut, Slight Knife Kink, Slight Orgasm Delay/Denial, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Teasing, bh is mentioned, demencia is bisexual, flug is an asshole, this is gay and self indulgent, this is just 10k words of me self projecting kshfbds, u kno when what u want isnt in the tag so u make it for urself? yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmygDalin/pseuds/AmygDalin
Summary: Maybe it’s because of the way she spares glances toward you, a small smirk pulling at her lips, and ohboyyou can see a fang peeping through her smile. Maybe it’s because she lingers in your vicinity far longer than what she should. Maybe it’s because you justknowshe’s going to cause trouble for you someday.Or maybe it’s just because of the stupid hoodie she wears. Whatever the case, you’re wary of her.It pisses you off that you can’t figure outwhyshe annoys you.
Relationships: Demencia (Villainous)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	is it still me that makes you sweat?

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh this is the first fic ive posted in LITERALLY ALMOST TWO YEARS. i haven't seen enough dem/reader content, and im gay, so there's that. also, this is the first smut ive written and actually posted so please be nice. reader is afab, but there are no pronouns used to refer to reader. there's not really any lewd terms to refer to reader's genitalia (i used folds, core, center, clit, etc). this might be the last villainous fic i write for a while just because there's no new content. anyways, please enjoy! i had a blast writing this!
> 
> title taken from p!atd's "lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off"; this song is included in the playlist i made that i felt reflected demencia well: [x](https://open.spotify.com/user/40hdibbuqbsfw5e5cytqcyzbk/playlist/2XcVkvlzmZbjKRFDHJK0iQ?si=_Egmy41oRXWvqNKRv_0QyA)

Her hands are all over you by the time your back hits your door, helping the door to shut with a resounding _click_.

She’s nipping and sucking at your bottom lip, huffing a laugh when your hands tighten on the fabric of her jacket.

Her yellow eye glints almost menacingly, the other eye hidden in the dingy lighting of your apartment, but the way she’s shoving her tongue into your mouth suggests that she has anything but violence in mind for you.

You find yourself falling backwards, only to be caught by the comfort of your mattress. When did you get here? There’s no point in trying to think as her teeth sink into your neck, sucking a dark mark that will likely last for weeks. You gasp, and she laughs again.

Her hands are sneaking up your shirt. They’re cold, but you don’t mind. At all.

Your hands grip the sheets under you (in pleasure? In anticipation? You didn’t know), and your back arches, your breath leaving your lungs as she pulls your shirt down just enough to lick at your collarbone.

Eyes squeezing shut, you shudder and swallow hard. God, you knew she was a villainess, but this wasn’t teasing. This was torture.

“Look at you. So messy already. Oh, you’re gonna be a _fun_ one.”

Her hands slip to the waistband of your shorts--

And you jolt upright in bed, soaked in sweat and awakened from your dream by your phone’s alarm.  
~*~  
It’s been only your third week here, and you hate it.

The grocery store you work at has one register. You swear that that register is _at least_ fifty years old. It’s rusty in some places, so it’s hard to pull the cash drawer out most of the time. The buttons are greasy and faded from use and tend to jam from time to time. Your boss had insisted that the store was antique and that he didn’t want anything changed when you went to him and practically begged for an updated register.

The worst part? Your grocery store--that is, the one you’re employed at--is the only one on your side of town.

One upside of working in such a respected establishment is that the people who come in are rather interesting individuals. There are a few noteworthy people that make working at that hellhole a little better. 

There’s Betty, a middle aged woman who wants to always talk about the latest fashion trends to anyone who would listen. Old Bill has a hit-list a mile long but has yet to make true his promises. Janine (“sober and clean,” your boss would always laugh, causing you to turn your head and wince) is a woman who has struggled with drug abuse in the past and is now a librarian at an elementary school in town; the element you like the best about her is her radical style. She’s usually dressed in black from head to toe, rocking lip and nose piercings like no tomorrow, yet she’s soft-spoken with a wonderful attitude and a kindness that’s hard to replicate.

There’s one person in particular that kicks your heartrate up a notch when she swaggers into the door with her wild hair and fraying stockings. She equally pisses you off and intrigues you to a degree you didn’t think was even _possible_ for a human being.

You’re used to weird, that’s for sure. You’re no stranger to the villain and hero fights that happen every other day on main street, nor are you unfamiliar with some of the (lesser known and equally unskilled) villains who attempt to steal goods from the store.

But...she’s _weird_ , almost out of place among the commoners that frequent the store--even the ones like Bill or Janine.

You’re never working the register when she comes in; typically, you’re mopping up spills that look far too suspicious or restacking cans to make those stupid little pyramids your boss loves so much. She always pays the full price and leaves tips in the (usually dusty and ignored) tip jar that’s placed strategically next to the newspapers and gossip magazines. 

Her voice is unforgettable: high-pitched that carries a lilting tone at all times and a giggle that would send lesser people running. She never did anything to you, so why were you even annoyed with her in the first place?

Maybe it’s because of the way she spares glances toward you, a small smirk pulling at her lips, and oh _boy_ you can see a fang peeping through her smile. Maybe it’s because she lingers in your vicinity far longer than what she should. Maybe it’s because you just _know_ she’s going to cause trouble for you someday.

Or maybe it’s just because of the stupid hoodie she wears. Whatever the case, you’re wary of her.

It pisses you off that you can’t figure out _why_ she annoys you.  
~*~  
It’s your first time working the register at the same time _she_ walks in, and it’s the second month of working in that little grocery store. There were some rumors floating around about her that she works for that big shot Black Hat and is a renowned assassin. You had scoffed at the idea, finding it hard to believe that a woman like her--still in her scene phase (and pulling it off, _somehow_ )--could strike like a viper, killing her victims before they could even draw another breath.

She walks in with her hands in her jacket pockets, and she seems to do a double-take when she sees you at the register. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be sweeping?” She jokes, and you feel heat rise in your face out of anger.

“That’s not what I _only_ do,” you respond politely, your voice stiff. She seems to know that she’s gotten a rise out of you, and she grins. You continue with, “Can I help you with something today, miss?” before she can embarrass you further.

“Mm. Not sure yet. I think I need to walk around first,” she hums. You narrow your eyes as she strolls breezily to the aisle with the cookies and chips. You watch as she picks up a package of cookies, reads the label, huffs, then replaces the package before moving onto another plastic-wrapped excuse for a cookie. She continues this as you watch, and you eventually get bored enough to return to your mundane job of disinfecting the register. 

Your boss is an asshole, you remind yourself as you stick your fingers between the disgusting keys to swipe out whatever gunk was lingering in the cracks.

You feel like you’re elbows deep in that god damn register when the air fills with a sudden cry of, “What the hell are you doing? You have to pay for that!”

You snap your gaze upward to see that woman gliding to the exit with packages stuffed under each arm, and your jaw drops at her smugness. Surely she’s joking.

“Sorry, old fella, but the boss man wants me back at the mansion within five minutes. I don’t have time to pay. Toodles!” With that snide remark, she’s almost to the doors when your boss yells something else out.

“I’ll call the cops on you! I know what you look like and where you live!” You didn’t realize that it was your boss that had been the one yelping earlier. He must’ve been on his way to chew your ass out about how terrible of a job you were doing to his _precious register_.

She pauses, then, and a chill runs up your spine. She’s quiet for a moment before barely turning her head. You can hear the smile in her voice when she says, faintly, “They can try me.”

A flash of movement is all the warning your boss gets before there’s a gnarly-looking knife jetting straight toward his face. He ducks in time for it to impale itself in the wall behind him with a dull _thunk_ , and he lets out an undignified squeak. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t for the way that the woman is holding herself. 

She holds out her hand, and the knife returns, boomerang-like, to her grasp. With a beaming smile, she points at your boss with the tip of the knife and cheerfully says, “And if they want to get to me inside the mansion, well. It’s their funeral.”

She slips out of the doors, and you’re left with yourself staring at her exit like she’s a celebrity and your boss who’s staring at her exit like she’s just murdered someone and ate their eyes.

You’re glued in place, unsure of whether to go help your boss or call the cops, when your boss barks, “Go after her or you lose your job without getting this month’s pay!” His voice is wavering; he sounds like he’s close to tears.

Shit. You can’t lose this job. The hell else are you supposed to do? Become a grave robber? You scramble towards the door and start sprinting in the direction you saw that woman turn when she left. 

Man, you hated your boss. 

Your name tag is desperately clinging onto your shirt with its shitty little pin as you run along the sidewalk, panting out _sorry_ s and _excuse me!_ s. You don’t care that you look like a lunatic. If you don’t get this month’s pay for rent, you’re _fucked_.

You see a flash of shockingly bright green hair turn into an alleyway, and you immediately follow. What’s she trying at, anyway? The packs of cookies and chips she stole are literally a dollar each. Somehow, you didn’t buy into that whole _didn’t have time to pay_ ordeal.

It’s a dead end alleyway. She stands at the end of the alley, and you’re thankful to notice that she has yet to face you. That’s as good an advantage as you were going to get. You take in a deep breath and start running towards her, and she doesn’t have any more warning about your approach other than you yelling, “Stealing is against the law!”

Yeah, no shit. You were bad at thinking of clever stuff up on the spot.

You collide into her back, sending the junk food flying and the two of you tumbling to the ground. You frantically gather her wrists into one hand to position them behind her back, and you’re shaking with excitement. You have visions of becoming the town’s hero for the next week as you proudly retell the story of how you saved those stolen goods from that no-good nasty woman.

Your fantasies of fame and fortune are interrupted when the woman under you begins to laugh. Her cheek is pressed into the ground, so you have a clear vision of her wild grin and glittering eye. You frown, about to insult her and tell her that you have the advantage, when your world tilts upside down. You land with your back on the hard concrete with a loud _oof_ , and suddenly this crazy ass woman was straddling you. “Hey, dude, what the fu--”

Your words are cut off sharply as there’s the sudden coolness of metal being pressed against your throat; your eyes widen at her smug expression. “How brave of you to come after little ol’ me,” she purrs, not letting off on the pressure of her knife pressed against your throat. “You’ve got spirit. It’d make me so _sad_ if I had to kill you.” Her words are accentuated by the knife digging into your skin a tad harder, and you grit your teeth as that pressure turns into slight pain.

“Then don’t.” Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. This is bad. You know a little bit of kickboxing and how to shoot a gun, but neither technique would save you now. Your mind is racing with ways to use your words to dissuade her from killing you. Insults wouldn’t work. Maybe you could start crying or screaming. Begging could work, too, but she doesn’t seem like the type to take too kindly to something so basic.

Your thoughts are cut short as she tilts her head with a hum, lifting the knife to drag it gently across your cheek. “You know, you don’t seem too scared of me.”

“I’m not,” you lie. You’re scared shitless, but it’s not so much of the fear of dying now. It’s something much more _primal_ that frightens you about her.

It’s thrilling and terrifying. You squeeze your eyes shut as she tosses the knife up to flip it so the blade is encapsulated in her hand, the handle now nudging your chin to tilt your head back and forth. You manage to swallow a whine.

What’s _wrong_ with you?

She tosses her head to flick her red bangs out of her face and study you closer. She eventually takes her knife away from you but doesn’t move from her position on top of you yet. You’re breathing hard, making no movement to get her away from you. Her face is now unreadable.

“I really only did that to see how fast you can run.”

“Huh?” You feel dumb, your tongue heavy in your mouth. You have no idea what she’s talking about until she raises an eyebrow at you. “Oh! Y-you mean the, uh, stealing thing.”

She scoffs and leans back slightly. Her weight over your hips is driving you fucking _nuts_. “Of course that’s what I meant. I needed to make sure that you were a good one.”

 _A good one_. You gulp. “A good one for…?”  
.  
Her abrupt grin sends you reeling, for some reason. “A good one for seeing me and my band play, dummy!” The change in attitude gives you whiplash. Before you can even begin to ask what’s wrong with her, there’s a piece of bundled-up paper being shoved in your mouth, muffling your words. “We play in two days down at that old bar. It’s sketchy as hell, but the acoustics in there are great.” She finally, _finally_ rises from where she had been straddling you, and you miss her warmth pressed against you. You shove that thought away as quickly as it appears in your mind.

You spit out the paper and stammer, “Why do you want me to come?” The look she gives you is absolutely wicked. 

“You’ll see eventually. Come to my show, or I’ll kill you.”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“Yeah, but I know where you work.” She sticks her tongue out, bends down to pat your cheek once then pinch it, and whispers, “Don’t forget, sweetheart.”

By the time you’re back on your feet, swaying slightly, she’s gone. You shakily gather up the abandoned packages of junk food and, after slight consideration, the paper she had stuffed in your mouth. 

The walk back to the store is haunting. She’s insane; there’s no argument there. She’s dangerous and a threat to anyone who comes across her, whether she’s in a bad mood or not. Yet your intrigue--if you can even call it that--with her heightens. There was something about that whole exchange that left you trembling and wanting more. More of what, you weren’t sure, but you were certain that it had to do with her.

That night, back at your apartment while curled up in bed, you smooth out the crinkles in the paper that had been crumpled up and begin to read it. It’s a poster, if you can call it that, of that woman’s band. She’s in front of the rest of the group, and the faces of the people behind her are obscured by shadows. She’s holding a bass guitar and grinning viciously. 

It’s when you come upon her name that you realize you never got her name in the first place. Under each band member is their name, and hers is listed as _Demencia_. You wonder if it’s a fake name, but with the nature of this town, you have a feeling it’s not a nickname.

The band name is cheesy as hell: _Demencia and the Hero Slayers_. You draw the conclusion that they’re some sort of heavy metal--or, at the very least, punk--band. It’s not your favorite genre of music, but your life's on the line!

(Kind of.) 

You have the feeling that Demencia didn’t _really_ want to kill you. Just to be safe, though, you’d go to her show.

It’s only to be safe. It’s not because you wanted to see her again or anything.

You toss the poster onto your nightstand, reach over, and turn off the lamp, leaving your room in complete darkness. 

You have trouble sleeping that night. Your dreams are full of knives feathering down your sides, sharp grins, and laughs that fill the air as you arch your back with cries for more.  
~*~  
Demencia was right. This place is _sketchy_ as _hell_.

It’s a worn-down building--more of a house, really, with its suburban style of arched windows and sharp, angular roofing--that had once been painted a lovely blue color. The blue’s gone, now, having flaked into nonexistence, replaced by the ugly grey-brown of the wooden shingles underneath. The porch was nothing more than rotting planks of oak with rusted, bent nails stabbing through. Thankfully, someone had laid down a sheet of metal leading to the entrance, so you weren’t as concerned about getting tetanus or a broken ankle. There’s one door, and this is the only part of the house that looks relatively new. It’s a black metal door with an ornate silver handle. The front windows are so dirty you can’t see anything through them but the outlines of figures. You can just barely hear laughter and raucous chatter, and there’s a thrum of bass that rattles the old panes. 

For a moment, you consider just... _leaving_. You didn’t owe that weirdo anything. Crowds aren’t really your jam nor is loud music. She was joking about the whole “killing you” part (hopefully), and if you ever feel _that_ threatened by her, you could just move back with your parents.

But you find yourself continuing to stare at the door, almost in awe. You try to urge your body to go the other way, to just turn around, go back to your apartment, take a bath, and go to bed.

Your hand is turning the handle of the door before you know it.

Your mind is at war with itself. One part knows how dangerous Demencia is and wants nothing more to do with her.

The other part knows how dangerous Demencia is and wants _more_.

You step into the house.

It looks nothing like the outside.

The walls are covered in various posters of musicians and bands you know and don’t know. Whatever bare spots are left are smothered in dollar bills that have signatures scrawled over them. Tables and chairs are scattered through the one huge room that is the house that once was--you imagine that the amount of time it took to knock the walls down and completely refurbish the inside was astronomical--with a bar off to the side, fully stocked. The front of the room has a small stage, unbearably bright lights shining down onto it, and it’s then that you see her. All the breath leaves your lungs.

Her raggedy hair is knotted into a surprisingly delicate braid that trails over her shoulder. She’s abandoned her usual punkish outfit for a simple form fitting black dress with combat boots to match. In her hands she clutches a bass guitar, and she’s fiddling with the tuning pegs. Her bandmates are wearing variations of her outfit (black on black), but the lights pointing at the stage makes it hard for you to see their faces.

There’s already a sizable crowd gathered near the stage. You decide that you should hurry up and find a place to, uh, _stand_.

At the bar is a young man with blond hair wearing a blue jacket. He spares a single look up at you before returning to his job of wiping out beer mugs. “Entry fee is five bucks. If you want anything from the bar--”

“Nope! No, um, that’s fine,” you hurry out. You shove the money at him, and he takes it with an amused expression. As you walk away from the bar, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, you can hear his quiet chuckle. 

You manage to find a spot off to the side of the crowd. The view isn’t terrible, but it’s not great, either. Demencia is nearest to you out of the band. You’re a little surprised to see villains and heroes alike mingling--you only know that because of the constant coverage they receive in the newspapers--amongst themselves, genial conversations filling the small space. 

Oddly enough, it’s a comforting atmosphere, nothing like you were expecting. At one point, a villainess bumps into you while trying to navigate her way to the bar, and you open your mouth to apologize out of instinct when she says, “Sorry, babe! Tight squeeze,” with a wink and a sunny smile. A hero gives you a napkin when you sneeze and a hard slap on the back.

Okay, _maybe_ this whole situation is starting to grow on you.

The crowd silences when the mics on stage crackle to life. Demencia is the one who speaks first. “Hey, everyone! So rad that you all could make it out tonight.” Someone in the back whoops, and in response, Demencia laughs. The sound has you swallowing hard, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. “All right, I hate listening to other people talk, and I’m sure you do, too. Without further ado…” 

A loud guitar riff rips through the building, and the crowd erupts into cheers as the band kicks into gear. You can feel the kick of the bass drum in your chest, and the room is full of noise.

That wasn’t what was leaving you breathless, though.

Demencia sings. Oh, she sings. She sings like a bluebird in the afternoon, if bluebirds were a little sexier and more murderous. Her voice is a serenade and a menace, all wrapped up in one messy package. The songs the band performs are covers of popular rock songs you’ve heard maybe once or twice (or not at all); it doesn’t matter, though. She could be singing about dog anus, and you’d still be listening.

Her voice lulls you into a trancelike state. All you can focus on is her: her body swaying with the beat, the sweat dripping down her forehead to trail along her cheeks like tears, her fingers dancing along the neck of the bass guitar.

It’s over too soon, you realize with a start, as the crowd around you bursts into a cacophony of screams and cheers. You clap in quiet admiration, unsure if your voice would even work at this point.

The crowd doesn’t dissipate; apparently, there’s another band coming onto the stage in a few minutes. You don’t stick around, though. Quickly, you dodge around bodies to make a break for the door. Vaguely, you hear the bartender say, “See you around, punk.” His voice carries no malice.

You make your way across the makeshift bridge of tin on the shitty porch outside and have just enough time to run an anxious hand through your hair while descending the porch steps when you hear a, “You showed up!”

 _Shit_. You plaster a nervous-as-all-hell smile on your face as you turn around to face the very woman who has been haunting your thoughts for the past few days. The rest of her band must be still packing up because you can’t see anyone else around. “Why wouldn’t I? Didn’t want to disappoint my…” You falter. Foe? Acquaintance? Friend? Weird crush?

Demencia seems to understand what you’re trying to say, and she thankfully lets it go. “Yeah, I mean, if I’m being honest, I’m not so sure you’d come. Just so you know, though, I don’t just ask anyone I see to come to my shows.”

That has your heart skipping a beat. “You only know me because I’m the one that usually cleans up the cereal that some shitty little kid spilled on the floor at the grocery store,” you say dumbly.

She rolls her eyes. “If I recall, that’s not all you do,” she says. Her arms are crossed, and the smile she has growing on her face is nothing short of antagonistic.

“I mean, yeah, but you could’ve invited my boss. Or literally anyone else.”

Her response catches you off-guard: “They’re not as cute as you, though.” You can only stare at her, open-mouthed as your cheeks heat up, while she laughs. Her eyes are twinkling with mirth. “I’d love to see you at our next concert, by the way. It’d be cool if you showed up early enough to be at the very front so I can flick my sweat on you.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Don’t do that to me, and it’s a deal. Just give me a date.”

She slaps another poster into your hand with a flourish. “Same place, same time. Be here, or I’ll kill you.”

“You know, I’m starting to think you don’t _actually_ want to kill me.”

Demencia turns from you, starting to walk away, when she throws a casual, “That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” over her shoulder.

A small smile crosses your face, and you finally take your leave. 

You notice, while reading over the poster back in your apartment, that she’s written her number at the bottom, signed with “XOXO Dem”.  
~*~  
Eventually, you become a regular at that dingy, run-down concert hall/bar.

Every show that Demencia and her band puts on is fantastic. You find yourself looking forward to the nights that they perform, and you’re disappointed when they have to cancel for one reason or another at any point.

You two start texting regularly. Sometimes, it’s menial shit like Demencia asking if her favorite brand of chips is back in stock at the store or whether turtles have brains (they most certainly do, you informed her as you stared at your phone screen, absolutely baffled).

Most of the time, though, it’s just you two getting to know each other. You find out that she does, indeed, work for Black Hat. She enjoys annoying the scientist and the bear that take up residence at the mansion, and she most _definitely_ wants in that eldritch horror’s pants.

(That part disappoints you, for some reason.)

In return, you inform her that you’re only working at the grocery store because you need to pay rent. You’ll be going to school soon--a few months, actually--at a college that’s in town. Your parents live some time away, but it’s not a far enough distance to send you reeling with homesickness.

It’s so odd to think that the woman that had threatened you with a knife just a month prior has grown on you so much. You enjoy her presence. It’s obvious that she’s talented and not as stupid as she tries to make people think. Sure, she’s lacking common sense. Sure, she’s an assassin. Everyone has their flaws, and hers just happen to be more... _unusual_.

It’s a sunny day outside when you get the text: **You wanna come over?**

It’s your day off of work, and you were planning on just tidying up your apartment by washing dishes and laundry and whatnot. You throw the dishtowel you were drying dishes with as you text back a quick response: **What about your boss?**

The bubble that shows she’s typing appears, disappears for a moment, then reappears. **He’ll leave us alone if we stay out of his way. I know my way around the house by now.**

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously. Saying _yes_ would be so easy, but you didn’t want to take your chances. You’re about to respond with a reluctant _no_ just as Demencia texts again: **Fluggy boy just told me that Black Hat is out of the house today. Not sure when he’ll be back, but enough time for you to get here.**

That _Fluggy boy_ must be the mad scientist. You were a little more relieved to know that he’d be there rather than Black Hat; you had gathered the little you know about him from Demencia and the news. Besides, if he got too cocky with you, you could alway snap him like a twig. It really wouldn’t be hard.

You toss the towel onto the counter, grab your keys, and shoot back to Demencia, **Give me the address. I’m on my way.**

Before she gives you the address, she sends a simple heart emoticon. It makes you grin a little too wildly.  
~*~  
The mansion is fucking _enormous_. 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t something this damn big. The temptation to make a crude joke passes through your mind, but you shake your head as you slip past the gate to head towards the front door looming menacingly in your line of sight.

Demencia had told you that Flug had turned off all of the security features before you got there (she had to beg him, apparently, which didn’t settle your nerves _at all_ ), but you were still shuddering at the sight of powered-down robots and big ass saws dangling from airborne static drones. You reach the door far quicker than what you were expecting, and you have hardly raised your hand to knock when the door swings open, revealing a disheveled Doctor Flug and an excited blue bear. You purse your lips, intending on introducing yourself, when the doctor interrupts with a sour, “Yes, I know you’re here for Demencia. She’s up in her room. Go upstairs to the first door on the left. It’s hard to miss.”

You step past Flug, a scowl on your face, and begin trekking up the ornate staircase to the second level. You manage to get to the top when you hear Flug call out, “I wouldn’t let the bossman see you, if I were you. He might tear your organs out and feed them back to you for crossing his threshold.” You grit your teeth as you hear his steps fade away, a peal of laughter following the doctor.

Flug was right, though. Demencia’s bedroom isn’t hard to find due to the alarming amount of signs she’s posted around the doorframe and on the door itself. You knock once, timidly, before entering.

You’re greeted with the sight of pure chaos. There’s clothes scattered everywhere. Her desk is a mess. Food wrappers and empty plastic bottles dot the floor. Her bed is a nest of pillows and blankets, and that’s where you see her, perched in the middle and lazily strumming her bass (it’s disconnected from the amp, thankfully). Demencia, in her usual outfit of that weird hoodie and frayed socks, perks up when she sees you, and she offers you a grin. “Hope you like the way I decorate my room,” she says. You don’t miss the snark she tosses into her words.

“I hate it,” you reply simply. She pats a spot next to her, and you gingerly sit. You spot her trusty knife chilling on her desk, and you remember how it came back to her hand when she threw it that one day. “So like, what’s up with your knife? Is it possessed?”

“I mean, you didn’t _have_ to come, you know,” she sighs, lying down and staring up at her ceiling. It’s also covered in posters and signs, much like her door. “And it’s possessed by magnetism, thanks to Flug. I call him a dumbass all the time just so I feel better about myself.”

You try to ignore the way your stomach squirms at the potential innuendo at the preceding sentence and decide to respond to that one. “Yes, I did. Otherwise, you wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Touche.” You yelp when she reaches over and yanks you down to lie next to her. You shoot her a startled look, but it goes unnoticed. “So I take it you’re enjoying our shows?” She asks, stroking along the strings of her bass casually.

“Oh! My god! They’re amazing. Seriously, no bullshit,” you gush instantly, and you don’t miss the way a light blush dusts her cheeks. “It’d be so cool if you guys did some original stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I love the covers,” you stammer out as she gives you a mildly offended look, “but I wanna know what you guys actually _sound_ like.”

Demencia hums then murmurs, “I’ve been working on some original content for a while, but the rest of the band wants stability. They’re worried that if we suddenly change what we’re about, then no one would listen.”

To a point, you understand. Stability means that you know what to expect. In her case, that means a steady income and loyal fans. “You could show me,” you suggest.

You’re a little surprised when she shakes her head. “Not yet. When it’s all the way done, I will, but I don’t want to show you something half-assed.”

The two of you fall into a combination of both stiff and comfortable silence, broken only by the scratchy sound of Demencia’s fingertips stroking along the steel strings of her guitar. Once in a while, you steal a look or two. Her eyes are closed, and for the first time since you’ve known her, she looks peaceful. Her chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and you can’t help but watch as her hands slide along the bass, caressing the instrument with a gentleness you didn’t know she had.

Slowly, your eyes slip shut as well. It’s a bit warmer in this room than what you’d usually prefer, but it’s not overbearing. You know that at least several minutes pass like this because you’re almost to the point of falling asleep when some of Demencia’s hair tickles against your cheek. Your eyes snap open, and you gasp to see her nearly nose-to-nose with you. Her eyes hold an intense emotion that you can’t quite put a finger on, and you don’t miss the way her gaze flicks down to your lips for the slightest second. She smiles slowly, languidly, like the cat who caught the canary.

“Wanna learn how to play bass?”

The question comes from left field so quickly it leaves you stammering. Her eyebrows raise slightly in irritation when you don’t respond right away, so you finally say, “I don’t want to fuck your guitar up.”

Demencia huffs and rolls her eyes. “Trust me, you won’t fuck it up. Just ask me how many times I’ve spilled orange juice or whatever on this old guy. Actually, don’t because that number is embarrassingly high.”

You don’t bother to hold back the laugh you give her, and you’re pleased to see her expression soften. She swings the bass’s strap over her head then slings it over your shoulder after she pulls you into a seating position. “It’s easier to teach from behind you. Is that okay?” She questions. A nod is all she needs before she winks at you--fuck, why did she _have_ to do that?--and slides herself around so she’s, indeed, behind you.

You can feel her breath just barely brushing against your neck, and you can’t suppress the shiver that wracks your body. Once again, you’re speechless. You don’t know what to say.

Thankfully, Demencia does. “Here,” she murmurs, gently guiding one of each of your hands to rest on the neck of the guitar and the pickup, and she individually curls each of your fingers to replicate her typical grip. Her hands linger. “We can just start with a simple B-flat scale. Does that sound good?”

Words continue to escape you, so you just nod. She hums in response then positions the hand at the neck of the guitar to the first fret of the scale. “Now, when you play, alternate your fingers when plucking the strings. Makes it easier on your wrist. The frets are gonna help you find the right pitch.” Her explanations might as well have fallen on deaf ears because now she’s pressing her chest into the curve of your back. Demencia’s breasts push against you, and you can hardly focus on anything else. You force yourself to follow her directions. 

You pluck out the first note of the scale--a shaky B-flat--and you can feel, rather than hear, how she laughs softly. “Good job. Now you’re gonna play the C--” She cups her hand over your fingers and slides them down to the correct fret, “--and, oh, look at you! Such a fast learner.”

The praise leaves you feeling woozy. You gulp, your throat dry, and you can hear the way it clicks as it struggles to relubricate itself. Even now, you didn’t dare speak out of fear of breaking whatever spell Demencia has on you right now.

“All right, I’m going to just tell you where to move your hands rather than move them for you. Is that okay?” Your nod is enough for her to take her hands from your own, and you mourn the loss of her warm touch.

That is, until she settles her hands on your waist. You bite back a yelp, but you can’t stop the way you jump in surprise. She seems to ignore your reaction. “Okay, it’s D, now. You can move over to the next string. It’s an open D, so just pluck the string.”

Just as you do, her lips brush against your ear, her hands tightening minutely on your waist. “Sweet. Good job, honey,” she purrs. “Next note is an E-flat. It’s just the first fret on that string.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as she hums lowly next to your ear again, the sound causing your stomach to tense. You bite back a whine.

The two of you continue like this for the rest of the scale and back down again. You swear you’re on Death’s doorstep when she finally pulls away from you. Your hands are trembling as she tenderly takes the bass from you and sets it off to the side. She’s still behind you, her breath washing over your neck, hands settled leisurely on your waist. Neither of you speak as the tension in the air grows tighter and tighter.

“You know, I could give you voice lessons, too,” she says, her voice hardly a whisper, “although I’m not opposed to continuing to teach you how to play bass guitar.”

Oh god. Oh _Jesus_. Her hand lightly skates around to stroke your stomach, and you arch the slightest bit. You bite your lip hard enough to nearly draw blood.

“What do you say? Same time tomorrow? Or do you wanna wait for a bit?”

An eternity stretches between her question and your answer. You lick your dry lips and croak out, “Let’s--let’s wait. Because I need to work. And stuff.”

“Fine by me.” She pulls away from you for a final time to stand next to the bed. You just _know_ you look like a mess. It’s not fair how collected she looks. The only thing that tips you off that she might’ve enjoyed herself as much as you did would be the blush covering her cheeks. “You know where I live, and you have my number.” She holds out her hand for you to take, and she firmly grasps your hand to pull you to your feet. You avoid her gaze even as you feel her staring at you. 

“I, uh, have to go,” you squeak. You clear your throat then try again. “I need to go home. I have work really early tomorrow morning, and I can’t go without my beauty sleep.” Your weak attempt at a joke has Demencia giggling, and you love the way your heart flutters at the sound.

“That’s okay. Just let me know when you get home.” She squeezes your hand once, twice, then lets go. “I had fun.”

You nod sheepishly, scuffing your shoe on the tile floor of her room. “Me too. Uh, I’ll...I’ll see you around,” you whisper. When you hazard a glance up at Demencia, she’s looking at you like you’re one of the most precious sights beheld. 

“See you around, sweet cheeks.” She raises her hand to brush her knuckles against your cheek affectionately ( _affectionately_!) then pats it gently a few times. “Get out of here.”

You manage to make it back to your apartment without a hitch, and as soon as your apartment door is shut, you send a quick message to Demencia before tossing your phone to the floor carelessly--thank god for cases--and sliding down the door with your back against it.

You don’t even bother taking your pants off. You undo the button and zipper, shove your hand into your underwear, and furiously rub at your clit as you shake.

Scenes of Demencia holding you down with one hand around your throat as the other fucks you; Demencia dragging a knife down your body lightly as you cry for release; Demencia grinding against your thigh needily, whimpers dripping from her lips, as you grind against hers, lips and tongues meshing together passionately flit through your mind like stations on a TV. You’re drenched at this point; sweat is soaking your body as you arch your back into your hand as you wish it was someone else’s. Your fingers start to cramp, but you don’t even entertain the idea of stopping. Your eyes roll back as the pleasure comes to a head.

Your orgasm is powerful enough for you to clamp your other hand over your mouth as you scream into it, your legs trembling. You rock your hips against your hand desperately, gasping for breath, as you feel your slick covering your hand and fingers.

You bonelessly relax into the floor, trying to catch your breath.

You could go clean up in a minute or two.

Your phone buzzes, and you tiredly cast a glance over at it.

It’s Demencia. **Thank you, honey! :)**

You let your eyes close with a low sigh.  
~*~  
It’s not the teasing that has you fed up with her, nor is it her insistence that the “lessons” (well, to be fair, she actually _is_ trying to teach you bass) should continue.

You find yourself wanting more from her than what you’ve ever wanted from anyone else. Her charm is irresistible; while you have frequent thoughts of her shoving you onto the nearest surface and dropping to her knees to drink from you like a starving woman, you often think about what it’d be like to nap with her, to cook with her, to braid her hair and watch campy horror movies.

The only thing is that she wouldn’t stop talking about how much she wanted to fuck her boss.

She’d bring it up in casual conversations, whether that was in person or via text messages, and laugh at your flustered expression, mistaking your frustration with her for embarrassment. Thankfully, Demencia would always stop before she went into too much detail, but it was always enough to leave you seething with rage and pain.

So you finally get the courage to call her while you’re on your couch.

“Hello?” Her sweet voice makes your heart flutter, but you try to close off that part of you. “I wasn’t expecting you to call, but I’m--”

“What are we?” Your interruption catches Demencia in surprise. You can hear her breathing through the phone as she tries to figure out what you’re trying to say.

“What do you mean? We’re friends,” she responds casually then adds wickedly, “with some _slight_ benefits.”

You wince. _Friends_. Your stomach drops at the word. “That’s it? That’s all you think of me?”

Another pause. You can practically hear her furrowing her brows. “I mean, yeah. Why? Do you not wanna be friends?”

You manage to hold back a laugh and settle for shaking your head with a sigh instead. “Then why do you keep touching me like I’m something...something _more_? Do you get off on knowing that if you keep this up, I’ll keep coming back then _fall_ for you? Because it’s a shitty thing to do to a _friend_.”

She stammers your name out, but you press ahead. “You know, I really don’t appreciate how used I feel right now, touching me like a lover and whispering sweet nothings into my ear, making me think that, just maybe, _this_ is going to be the time you ask. Rather, you send me on my way then tell me the next day about how much you want your ugly-ass boss to bust a nut on your face.”

Demencia makes an indignant noise at that. You know you need to stop, but you’re on a roll. “It’s bad enough that I basically risk my life every time I take a step into that hideous mansion in hopes of your attention only to be left on edge and regretting my decision to go for _lessons_ ,” you spit. All of the anger leaves you at once as there’s deafening silence on the other end. Demencia has never heard you like this before: mean and spiteful for the sake of being hateful.

Your shoulders fall. “I think...I think I’m done, Demencia. I can’t do this to myself anymore. It’s best that we just forget each other,” you mumble.

“Please, just let me--” The raw emotion in her voice sends you reeling, but you couldn’t bring yourself to listen.

“Have a good, uh, life. I guess. Bye.”

You hang up before she has the chance to respond to you. Surprisingly, she doesn’t try to call back.

It’s good that she doesn’t because you immediately go to your room, flop onto the bed, and let the tears fall.

It hurts. It fucking _hurts_ that she doesn’t seem to be aware of your feelings for her. It’s so _stupid_ that you fell for her in the first place. It doesn’t make sense that you had fallen for an insane lizard girl that enjoys her job assassinating people.

You curl up on yourself, and you’re asleep before you’re even aware that you had closed your eyes.  
~*~  
_Tap, tap, tap_.

You roll over onto your side and stare at your window blearily. The curtains covering it obviously don’t allow for you to see what’s causing the noises, but you think that it’s just that stupid owl that has been haunting the apartment complex for the past few days. It seems to have taken a liking to pecking at windows that have old, dead bugs stuck on them, and this wasn’t your first time encountering it.

You pull a pillow over your head and huff, and just as you’re about to fall asleep again, the sound repeats.

 _Tap, tap, tap_.

A scowl crosses your face, and you press the pillow against your head tighter, hoping to muffle the sound enough so you can pass out comfortably. The sound repeats over and over. 

You throw the pillow off of your head and check your phone. It’s two in the morning. You have work in eight hours. You’re going to kill that owl.

As the tapping continues, you slide out of bed, teeth gritted in annoyance, as you rip the curtains open. You open your mouth to scream at the owl to go away, but you scream for a completely different reason.

Two mismatched eyes stare back at you, a fingernail a hair’s breadth away from tapping the glass again. Her forehead is pressed against the window, a pleading look on her face, as she points at the opening latch for the window.

You’re three stories up from the ground. What the fuck? In a daze, you open the window, and Demencia slips inside like a snake. You close the window, clicking the latch back into place, then turn slowly to face the woman.

She looks ashamed, unable to meet your eyes. You clear your throat; she spares a single guilty look up at you before returning her gaze to the floor, watching her shoes as she scuffs one against the carpet in your bedroom. 

“What do you want? I told you to leave me alone,” you say, your voice gravelly from sleep and renewed irritation.

Demencia says, “I need to talk to you, and it’s serious.” The proclamation has you blinking rapidly. She sighs then proceeds with, “I was an asshole.”

“Yeah.”

She cringes slightly at the sour tone. “I...I took you and your presence for granted. You’re...you’re something, some _one_ I’m not used to interacting with. Flug annoys me, Black Hat ignores me, and 505 just pisses me off. I don’t really--” She growls and runs a rough hand through her unruly hair. “I’m not _used_ to having someone look at me the way you do.”

Your expression softens slightly, but you’re not buying it yet. “That’s cool and all, but why are you--”

“Just _listen_.” Demencia grabs both of your hands in a sudden movement that has your breath hitching. “I was wrong. I treated you like shit because I wanted to make Black Hat jealous at first. Then I realized that I didn’t care about him anymore because you’re just...you’re _just_. But I was scared of hurting you if we went any farther.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “You didn’t seem that worried when you were chasing me with that knife,” you mutter. A smile hints at her features. You miss seeing her smile, you realize with a jolt.

“Fine. That’s fair. I’m not a good person, though. I push people away to keep myself from hurting them,” she whispers. When had the two of you gotten nearly face-to-face? It didn’t matter.

“You realize I’m no angel,” you reply, equally as quiet. 

She giggles softly. “Compared to me, you are.” Her face shifts back into a more serious look. “I understand if you don’t want me anymore. We can pretend like this never happened, and you’ll go back to your life as I go back to mine. I’ll never bother you again. If I didn’t tell you, though, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.” Her eyes are glistening. Is she about to cry? You realize that you’re about to, too. Your eyes still hurt from how much crying you did earlier that evening, but you didn’t care. “Please understand. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m not _used_ to someone as perfect as you.”

You didn’t respond.

Instead, your hands bury themselves in the hair at the back of her scalp, and you crush your lips together in a desperate, heated kiss. It’s sloppy; your teeth clack with hers briefly, and you accidentally use more tongue than what you meant to use initially.

In a twisted way, it was _good_. 

Demencia’s hands land at your waist, tugging you closer as you both break for breath before closing the space and resuming the kiss. Her lips are soft, and she tastes sweet. You hope your bed-breath wouldn’t chase her away, you think nervously.

Her tongue probes tentatively into your mouth, and you’re a goner. You moan softly, your legs shaking a little, and you drop your hands to run along her arms, appreciating the sinewy muscle that flexes and relaxes underneath her skin with her movements.

You lick into her mouth the same way she does to you, and you huff when she pulls away, the smallest strand of saliva connecting the two of you. “What? Did you not like that?” You grouch, but your attitude is taken away as she shoves you to sit on the edge of your bed. Your face brightens noticeably when she settles in your lap, and you gladly take the opportunity to settle your hands on her thighs. She laughs, shakes her head, then connects your lips with hers again.

You’re in heaven, you think, but the woman on your lap is no saint. Her swollen lips trailing down your neck is indicative of that as her hands slip easily under the shirt you had worn to bed. Her fingers trail lightly over your nipples, and you shudder, chewing on your bottom lip to silence your noises.

“Let me hear you, baby. No one’s around but us,” she murmurs against your skin, her fingers gently rolling one nipple between them. Your hips jerk upwards lightly as you feel yourself clench in anticipation of what’s to come. In one fluid motion, she tugs your shirt off then throws it to the floor, her hoodie and undershirt following shortly afterwards. You’re both nude from the waist up, now, and you can’t help but rake your eyes over her form hungrily.

With your hands cupping each of her breasts, you take one of her nipples into your mouth and suck lightly, relishing in the way her back arches as she groans lowly. You roll the other nipple between your fingers like she had done to you, and for a while, you’re content to simply switch your attention between one breast to the other.

Demencia isn’t, however. She wriggles from your lap and pushes at your shoulder to make you lie back. A flash of anxiety rolls through you as she begins to tug at your pants, and she seems to sense this as she pauses. “Is this okay?” She asks softly. The amount of tenderness in her voice makes you want to cry.

You nod wordlessly, and she slowly starts to pull your pants down your thighs. “We can stop whenever. Just let me know.” Another nod from you is all she needs to divest you fully of your pants, and you yelp in embarrassment as she whistles in a low tone. “Damn, you’re gorgeous.”

“Dem, I--”

“Do we need to stop?” She asks suddenly, the worry coming back in full force. You shake your head and crinkle your face up in annoyance.

Her confusion ends when you blurt out, “ _Touch_ me, god damn it.”

The slide of her rough fingers against your burning center has you whimpering. Nothing, _nothing_ could have prepared you for how her fingers slide against your clit, rubbing gentle circles in a way that has you gripping the sheets underneath you. Her finger dips lower to tease at your entrance, dipping into the wetness there before sliding back up to your nub. The extra lubrication has you rocking your hips against her hand shamelessly.

She slips a finger in, then two, and when she crooks her fingers to thrust them against the spot in you that has stars bursting in your vision, you _whine_.

She falls to her knees in front of you, withdrawing her hands from your body to pull at your thighs so your ass is partially off the edge of the bed. “I want to taste you,” is all the warning you have before she licks a broad stripe through your folds. You gasp and twist in the sheets. Your movements spur her on further, and you cry out when she seals her mouth over your clit, her fingers entering you smoothly once more.

Her fingers curl with each thrust; her tongue is nearly merciless against your clit, and all you can do is chant her name like a prayer. You manage to glance down at her once, and her intense gaze has you shutting your eyes. A laugh against your core has your thighs trembling.

The tension in your gut continues to grow, your walls clenching around her fingers. You’re surely drooling at this point, but you can’t bring yourself to care anymore.

She must be able to tell you’re close; she pulls away from your center with a wet _pop_ and a smug smirk at your bratty whine. Your orgasm fades from your mind as you glare at her mildly. “Mm, not yet. I have something I want to do with you.”

You’re immediately placated with her words. Hesitantly, you wiggle to the middle of the bed as she stands. Unabashedly, you watch as she strips away the final layer of clothing she has on--her skirt and underwear--and you swallow hard as she saunters toward you, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her hips sway, mesmerizing in their motions, and it hits you then that you’re one of the luckiest people on the planet.

Fuck, she’s hot.

She slides over your body, your chests pressed together, and as she captures your lips in another searing kiss, you feel one of your legs being lifted and hoisted over her shoulder. She nips lightly at your bottom lip, the sting of her fangs only fueling your arousal, and when she pulls away, you give her a questioning look.

In response, Demencia grins. Your back arches violently off of the bed as she grinds her pussy against your own dripping core, your voice pitched significantly higher than before as you babble her name.

Her hips begin to rock against yours, and you can hear her breathing getting faster incrementally. The combined slick from the both of you makes her movements that much more even. The wet noises of skin on skin would have sent you running normally. It’s a welcome noise, however, among the needy pleads of her name.

Your clits bump together, pulling a moan from both of you, and as she repeats what she did to cause that feeling, you blindly reach up. Your hands cup either side of her face, and it’s your turn to kiss her hard. The kiss softens gradually as Demencia winds a hand into your hair, the other dropping to play with your nipple again. Her hips never stop jerking against you; you can feel how needy she is for her own release.

You wondered, vaguely, if she was loud when she came.

Your hands drop from her face to grasp her ass firmly, encouraging her to rock into you harder. In response, she gasps your name against your lips. Without warning, she trails her lips down to where your shoulder met your neck and bit down.

At the feeling of teeth sinking into your skin, you’re reminded of how you felt when she was positioned above you so long ago, her eyes gleaming as she held the knife against your neck.

The pain only adds to the pleasure. Your nails dig into her ass. This only causes her to grind against you harder and faster. You can feel your slick dripping down your ass to dirty the sheets below.

Your entire body feels like it’s on fire. Again, the warning signs of an impending orgasm perk their way through your cloudy lust. “D-Dem, I--please,” you choke out.

She hums against your skin, beginning to suck a dark mark into where she had just bitten you. She pulls away to say briefly, “Please, what?” Her movements never slow. Your walls flutter around nothing, and you cry out in desperation. 

“Please, I need to c--”

Your lips are taken into a tender kiss, then, silencing the rest of your thought. “Then do it,” Demencia whispers sweetly.

You weren’t sure if you’ve ever had an orgasm this powerful before.

Your vision goes white as your eyes roll back, and your whole body shakes with the intensity of your orgasm. You shift between feeling red hot and ice cold, your vision blurring with sudden tears. You can’t stop clenching as your juices run freely, thighs shaking, your voice pitching into a hoarse scream.

It doesn’t stop. Demencia continues to rub herself against you, the overstimulation almost becoming too much, and you’re about to say so when you feel her convulse against you, a new wave of wetness drenching where you two were connected. She mewls and gasps for air, hips thrusting messily as she sees her own finish out to the very end.

You can’t help but watch her face as she chases her bliss. Her mouth is hanging open slightly, cheeks a bright red, forehead dotted with sweat.

Eventually, she stops, and she collapses next to you on the bed, her hand finding yours to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

The silence in the room is comforting.

Demencia curls her body against yours, seeking warmth as the sweat and slick begins to cool on her body, and you eagerly pull the blankets up over the both of you. With your arms wrapped around her and your chin on top of her head, you think that you can die happily.

Or at least fall asleep happily, which you both do at nearly the same time.

The next morning, before you go to work, you’re making breakfast for the two of you--pancakes and bacon--when Demencia glides into the kitchen with only a sheet draped around her. Silently, she stands behind you then rests her chin on your shoulder, watching you flip pancakes with muted interest.

This time, the hands on your waist are there for a sweet, wordless greeting.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter: @AmygHey!


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